


Brothers with Needles

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before sorting them to builders or rangers or stewards, the Black Brothers would set their new recruits to different tasks to see where their skills truly lay. </p><p>This included needlework.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers with Needles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saboten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saboten/gifts).



“Dang and blast.”

Grenn  was flapping his hand through the air, wincing slightly at where he had poked himself with a needle again. 

“Six,” Pyp said cheerfully, and Jon suppressed a grin. He hadn’t been in the room when Pyp had decided that he would keep track of how many times Grenn stabbed himself with a needle whenever they were put to sewing tunics together for the Brothers, but it certainly made him feel better about himself.  He’d stabbed himself twice already in that sitting, but at least Grenn’s count was usually at least double his own. Pyp had not yet taken to counting how many times he had stabbed himself, but then again, Pyp’s stitches were surprisingly good, given how he had never touched a needle before.  And none of them dared compare their work to Sam’s, whose sisters had shown him how when he had been at Horn Hill—before his father had found out at least.  Jon was glad that none of them had asked him why his sisters hadn’t taught him. Although, the very thought of Arya trying to teach him sewing filled him with a bittersweet amusement. He missed his little sister quite as much as he missed Robb.    He wondered if her needlework was improving at all in King’s Landing.

“You know,” Grenn complained loudly, “Considering how many damned calluses I have on my hands from everything else they have us do, you’d think that this little thing wouldn’t quite poke so hard.”

“And yet it does,” Pyp said contentedly, sticking his needle back through the black cloth he was sewing.  Pyp had nimble fingers—thin ones, like Sansa’s. Arya had always complained that Sansa’s fingers were thinner than hers, and that as why she had such trouble with sewing.  Maybe that was why Jon had difficulty with the task.  Maybe he and Arya had similar hands the way they had similar faces. He glanced at Pyp’s hands. He definitely had slender fingers— _especially_ when compared to Grenn’s.  Grenn’s fingers were massive.  Jon’s were somewhere in the middle.

But, then again, Sam had fatter fingers than he and Pyp did, and his stitchwork was the sort that would have made Septa Mordane coo with delight.  If, of course, Jon knew what made Septa Mordane coo with delight.  Which he did not.  But he imagined that it would be Sam’s stitchwork.

“My mother had a thimble,” Sam said, glancing over at Grenn, not quite nervously, but also not quite sure his commentary would be wholly welcome at that moment, “Made of bone.  If you keep poking yourself with the needle, it might be worth seeing if you can find one in Mole’s Town.  It can also help you sew faster.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grenn snapped. “You don’t think I’m getting better?  _Ow!_ ”  He had stuck himself again.

“Seven,” intoned Pyp.  “And you’re not.  I actually think you’re getting worse.  Not that it matters of course.  You won’t end up a steward.  At least, not unless they want clothing that’ll fall apart on their backs.”

Grenn glared at him, which, Jon supposed, was better than him glaring at Sam.

“How does it make you sew faster, Sam?” Jon asked quietly.  Arya had complained bitterly that she didn’t understand how Sansa could sew so quickly. She had thought that it was to do with her long, thin fingers.  Jon thought it was to do with the fact that she’d been sewing longer, not that he could have ever told Arya that.  It was muscle memory, the very same principle as to why he was better at swordplay than Bran…had been better at swordplay than Bran.  Bran would never even have a chance to be better than Jon now, as he’d always promised he would be.  Jon had chased him round the yard for that, and Bran had only escaped him by climbing up on top of the stables and not coming down until Lady Catelyn came and fetched him for dinner.

Sam glanced between him and Grenn, who was grumbling to himself and sucking on his thumb now, as if that would take away some of the pain.  “Well,” Sam said, “You don’t have to worry about sticking yourself.  But also you can push the needle back up through the fabric faster. You can just get your finger under it and shove because you don’t have to worry about the back pressure on your hand.”  He smiled and his eyes went a little glazed and Jon knew he was thinking of afternoons closeted away with his mother and sisters. 

Arya definitely hadn’t had one of those. Septa Mordane had probably thought she’d swallow it or something.

He looked down at his stitches.  They were getting neater, he had to admit. Definitely more even, more consistent.  He still wasn’t sure that they would actually hold the sleeves to the shirt he was making, but he supposed someone would find out one way or another.  He made a mental note to only take shirts made by Pyp or Sam, lest he lose his sleeves one day. 

Sansa had been good at sewing.  She had started making all her own dresses, and some clothes for Bran and Rickon to help mother with it.  She had liked sewing far better than Arya ever had, and Jon hoped that she would be able to sew things for her own children one day. It didn’t seem the sort of thing that queens were allowed to do, but then again, Jon had no idea what queens were allowed to do.  Cersei Lannister certainly didn’t seem the type to sew clothing for Prince Joffrey, that was for sure. 

Jon looked over at Sam again.  Sam was sewing faster than any of them, and had already finished his first shirt of the afternoon.  Jon was at least pleased to see he was further along in his shirt than Grenn and…he was surprised.  Pyp was only on the first sleeve, while Jon was on the second. But Pyp sewed faster than Jon. Unless…

“Pyp?”

“Yes Jon?”  Pyp looked up at him and Jon grinned.

“Are you watching Grenn sew to make sure you don’t miss him stabbing himself?”

“Yes,” Pyp said grinning.

“Seven Hells,” snapped Grenn, “I—”

“Also because I’m checking to make sure that you’re not actually hurting yourself.  What happens if you nick something important and you bleed to death? You’d be the only man ever killed by a needle.”

 _Not if Arya has anything to say about that_ , Jon thought to himself, hiding a smile. Not, of course, that he thought Arya would actually _kill_ anyone with the toy sword he had given her.  But threaten to…. He imagined her waving it in Joffrey’s face, shouting at him about what a horrible little shit he was and he actually grinned.

“It’s not funny!” Grenn complained loudly. “I’m not _that_ bad, and besides, this little thing’s a menace!”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Jon said quickly, forcing a frown onto his face as if that would prove his point.  “I just…I just remembered something that amused me.”

“What then?” asked Sam.  He had finished his spool of thread and was sticking a new strand in preparation for threading his needle.

“It’s…well…” he looked over at Grenn, “My little sister used to complain like you, about sewing?”

“She did?” Pyp said.

“Why?” Grenn asked.

“But girls love sewing!” Sam protested.

“Well, Arya didn’t.  She hated it.  I never saw her sew, but she always said she was no good.  And…well…she was—is—an energetic person. She always liked running around and climbing trees and causing a stir where she could.  She used to steal wooden practice swords and make my brother Bran fight with her.”

They all stared at him blankly, as if he were describing another species of being rather than his sister, and Jon frowned. It wasn’t _so_ strange—they just didn’t know Arya.  Maybe he wasn’t doing a very good job of describing her.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, “She went south with my father and my other sister, and before she left, I gave her a sword and she named it Needle.”  He shrugged, and looked back down at his stitch work.

“That was…that was very nice of you,” said Sam. He still sounded perplexed at the idea that Arya might hate sewing, but Jon smiled at him anyway.

“She seemed pleased with it,” he shrugged. “Anyway, her septa always told her she had a blacksmith’s hands when she wasn’t sewing as finely as Sansa.”

“A blacksmith’s hands,” said Grenn. “Were her hands as big as mine, then?”

“No.  Smaller.”

“Well, she’d need them to be bigger to be a proper blacksmith.”

“Well, if her hands were small and she wasn’t good at sewing, you can’t possibly say that your big hands are what keep your stitches so loose,” grinned Pyp, turning back to Grenn.

Grenn glared at him.  “But they _do_! It’s not my fault. And besides, she’s a little girl. She probably hadn’t been sewing very long.”  He looked at Jon hopefully.

“At least three years,” Jon said unhelpfully. For all he knew how much Arya hated sewing, he wouldn’t have any slights to her skill—not even from Grenn.

Grenn groaned.  “I have a bigger target for the damn needle,” he said, waggling his fingers.  “My fingers are at least twice as thick as yours.”

“Are not,” said Pyp.

“Are too.”

“Are not.”  Pyp reached over and grabbed Grenn’s hand, pressing their palms together. “They’re bigger yet, but not twice the size of them.”

“No, I suppose not.  Nothing like your ears and mine, then.” 

Pyp flushed, his ears turning a bright red.

“Target size doesn’t matter,” Sam said, trying to get them away from the discussion of Pyp’s ears.  “The target you _should_ be aiming for is where you stick your needle on the fabric and—” Grenn glared at him and he stopped talking.

“Be nice, Grenn,” said Jon.

“Be nice?  Everyone’s jumping on me and my sewing and you should be telling _them_ to be nice to _me!_ ”  He shook the shirt emphatically, as if the gesture would somehow make his point that much more poignant, and a moment later, the sleeve was dangling haphazardly half an inch away from the torso, thread hanging like a net between the two, Grenn’s needle pointing like a weird silver tail out of the sleeve.

They stared at the shirt for about three seconds. Then they all burst out laughing. Pyp hooted, Sam giggled, Jon couldn’t even make a sound he was laughing so hard.  Even Grenn was chortling as he scratched his head and stared at the shirt.

“That’s not supposed to happen, is it?” he said when they had all calmed down.  Jon was wiping tears from his eyes.

“No,” said Sam.  “It’s the opposite of that, really.”

“Yeah.  That’s…that’s what I thought.”

“You can still tighten it back up easily enough. Just tug the string,” Pyp said helpfully, leaning forward.  “I can help if you like.”

“I think I’ve—” they heard a snap and the tail-thread and needle snapped away from the bits holding the shirt and torso together. “got it,” Grenn finished lamely as they all sunk into laughter again.

“Do I have to start over now?”

“Nah,” said Jon.  “I reckon you’re fine.  I reckon someone’ll really appreciate only having one sleeve.”

“Donal Noye?” suggested Sam.

Jon gave him an approving nod, even as both of their faces split into grins again.

“I give up,” Grenn sighed, putting the shirt down and stretching.  “I’d rather have a whole party of Others bugger me in the middle of the night than finish this damn shirt.”

“It’ll be funny when you’re First Steward,” said Sam, and laughter filled the room once again.

Jon wondered if Arya had ever had this much laughter in her sewing lessons.  He supposed not.  Then she might have hated them less.  Arya had always loved laughter at the very least. 

“Come on then,” Pyp said, bending down. Grenn’s needle had fallen to the floor, and he plucked it up and handed it to him.  “Tell you what, I’ll reset your count. That way you’re behind Jon again.”

“Hey!”

“And Thorne’ll have us outside soon enough. Let’s see if _Jon_ can stick himself more than you for a change.”

“We all know that that won’t count,” said Jon loudly.

But Grenn grinned at him and began threading the needle, his tongue between his teeth, a look of determined focus on his face and Jon turned back to his sewing, trying to remember what it was that Arya had said Sansa had told her about keeping stitches even.

**Author's Note:**

> [fish-in-fridge](http://fish-in-fridge.deviantart.com/) drew a lovely piece of art inspired by this story, which can be found [here](http://fish-in-fridge.deviantart.com/art/Brothers-with-Needles-560748114).


End file.
